John Clare on Fairies and Witches (Poem)

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john clare fairies

She from her memory oft repeats

Witches’ dread powers and fairy feats:

How one has oft been known to prance

In cowcribs, like a coach, to France,

And ride on sheep-trays from the fold

A race-horse speed to Burton-hold;

To join the midnight mystery’s rout.

Where witches meet the yews about:

And how, when met with unawares.

They turn at once to cats or hares,

And race along with hellish flight.

Now here, now there, now out of sight!

And how the other tiny things

Will leave their moonlight meadow-rings.

And, unperceived, through key-holes creep.

When all around have sunk to sleep.

To feast on what the cotter leaves, —

Mice are not reckoned greater thieves.

They take away, as well as eat.

And still the housewife’s eye they cheat.

In spite of all the folks that swarm

In cottage small and larger farm;

They through each key-hole pop and pop,

like wasps into a grocer’s shop.

With all the things that they can win

From chance to put their plunder in;

As shells of walnuts, split in two

By crows, who with the kernels flew;

Or acorn-cups, by stock-doves plucked,

Or egg-shells by a cuckoo sucked;

With broad leaves of the sycamore

They clothe their stolen dainties oer:

And when in cellar they regale.

Bring hazel-nuts to hold their ale;

With bung-holes bored by squirrels well,

To get the kernel from the shell;

Or maggots a way out to win.

When all is gone that grew within;

And be the key-holes eer so high.

Rush poles a ladder’s help supply.

Where soft the climbers fearless tread.

On spindles made of spiders’ thread.

And foul, or fair, or dark the night.

Their wild-fire lamps are burning bright:

For which full many a daring crime

Is acted in the summer-time;

When glow-worm found in lanes remote

Is murdered for its shining coat.

And pot in flowers, that nature weaves

With hollow shapes and silken leaves.

Such as the Canterbury bell.

Serving for lamp or lantern well;

Or, following with unwearied watch

The flight of one they cannot match,

As silence sliveth upon sleep.

Or thieves hy dozing watch-dogs creep.

They steal from Jack-a-Lantern’s tails

A light, whose guidance never fails

To aid them in the darkest night

And guide their plundering steps aright.

RattUng away in printless tracks,

Some, housed on beetles’ glossy backs.

Go whisking on — and others hie

As fast as loaded moths can fly:

Some urge, the morning cock to shun.

The hardest gallop mice can run.

In chariots, lolling at their ease.

Made of whateer their fancies please;

Things that in childhood’s memory dwell

Scooped crow-pot-stone, or cockle-shell,

With wheels at hand of mallow seeds.

Where childish sport was stringing beads;

And thus equipped, they softly pass

Like shadov^ on the summer-grass.

And glide away in troops together

Just as the Spring-wind drives a feather.

As light as happy dreams they creep.

Nor break the feeblest link of sleep:

A midge, if in their road a bed,

Feds not the wheels run oer his head.

But sleeps till sunrise calls him up,

Unconscious of the passing troop,

Thus dame the winter-night regales

With wonder’s never-ceasing tales;

While in a corner, ill at ease.

Or crushing tween their father’s knees.

The children — silent all the while —

And een repressed the laugh or smile

Quake with the ague chills of fear,

And tremble though they love to hear;

Starting, while they the tales recall,

At their own shadows on the wall:

Till the old clock, that strikes unseen

Behind the picture -pasted screen

Where Eve and Adam still agree

To rob Life’s fatal apple-tree.

Counts over bed-time’s hour of rest,

And bids each be sleep’s fearful guest.

She then her half-told tales will leave

To finish on to-morrow’s eve; —

The children steal away to bed,

And up the ladder softly tread;

Scarce daring — from their fearful joys —

To look behind or make a noise;

Nor speak a word! but still as sleep

They secret to their pillows creep.

And whisper oer, in terror’s way.

The prayers they dare no louder say;

Then hide their heads beneath the clothes.

And try in vain to seek repose:

While yet, to fancy’s sleepless eye,

Witches on sheep-trays gallop by,

And fairies, like a rising spark.

Swarm twittering round them in the dark;

Till sleep creeps nigh to ease their cares.

And drops upon them unawares.

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